


sick leave

by strawberryy



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Chan Is A Big Baby, Everyone Is Soft For Chan, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gay, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Internal Monologue, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Self-Indulgent, Sickfic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a mess hands down, chan is a grumpy sick jfc and he swears a lot oops, i meant for ships but they're mostly only there if you squint, i wrote this over the course of like several months so beware of inconsistent flow, just me projecting on chris in 11k words, lapslock, lots of feverish monologuing lol, meant for soft chanlix but 2chan said bitch lol u thot, mild emetophobia?, oh yeah and some lowkey utilization of felix's massaging capabilities lol, ot9 really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 06:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15018383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryy/pseuds/strawberryy
Summary: “...i feel like shit.”woojin snorts. “you look like it.”“you really do,” minho feels the need to add, nodding resolutely. jeongin's slack-jawed in the background.he scowls.-(alternatively, literally just 11k of chan being a grumpy sick)





	sick leave

**Author's Note:**

> when i say this is a mess, i mean it is a Mess™. i've been working on this on and off since last month with no particular direction in mind (yay projecting on fictional scenarios for no reason!!), which is probably why the beginning and end in particular are a little rough. the latter mostly because i NEEDED to end it, else it'd just keep getting mindlessly longer sjsdjdj so i hit the brakes as best i could. probably not as best i could, but i wanted to post it already. :( 
> 
> anyways, i hope someone can get some happiness out of this pile of garbage uwu. i like the meat of this mostly, and i need more sickfics in my life, so. enjoy if you can! <3 i hope everyone gets some good uwus and/or laughs out of this, despite how chaotic it is. leave a comment if you so wish! they really make my day uwu.
> 
> UNEDITED, so apologies in advance for all the inconsistencies and typos.
> 
> rated T for swearing mostly (@ christopher, a child)  
> warnings for vomit, though not graphic, and mild emetophobia because why not project that toooo

* * *

 

he wakes to what feels like an actual earthquake and the distinct feeling of _not-bed_ beneath him.

 

it takes him an almost alarming (or just ridiculous, either or) amount of time to get his mind coherent enough to pry his eyes open. it feels like pulling teeth, eyes heavy in his skull and eyelids heavier as if they'd been glued shut in his sleep.

 

(if they actually had been... the maknaes would have hell to pay)

 

(fortunately, no glue shenanigans)

 

sleeping, that's what he's waking from. as the word 'waking' tends to imply.

 

everything's slow and thick and dream-like (on the other hand, maybe he actually is still asleep, you never know, which is actually kinda creepy if you think about it) despite the insistent _shaking_ making his head pound. something vibrates in his chest that he belatedly acknowledges as his own voice, making some sound or another that he hopes conveys his distaste for being awoken oh so rudely but he's pretty sure it was just... an unhelpful grunt. if he pays more attention than he really wants to, he might notice the voices flapping around somewhere above, just as loud as the feeling of hands prodding him around.

 

okay but back to the _not-bed,_ it feels like his actual _bones_ are sore and aching, and when he moves to pull the blanket cocooning him back over his head, it feels like he's moving underwater, or maybe mud, everything heavy and delayed and _not-nice._

 

“yah, wake up already!” the next hand that assaults him borders on painful but not really, smacking on his shoulder repeatedly until he blinks his eyes back open. (he hadn't realized he closed them again, but details)

 

“ _no,_ ” he mumbles, voice far more croaky than he remembers it being.

 

the voices finally stop, as does the shaking, _thank the heavens._ he feels himself drifting back under almost _too_ fast but he's too tired to give a shit so he gladly lets it drag him away.

 

until someone _sits_ on him.

 

why.

 

“lemme _sleep,_ ” he groans, arms still weighted as he pushes on the body through the blanket. he might as well be a kitten for how much the person moves. “today's our free day, lemme...” he remembers it as soon as it falls from his tongue, which seems to be just as heavy as the rest of his body. their free day, _ha;_ he's _allowed_ to cling to sleep like an actual child – today is one of the _only_ days he's allowed to, so sue him for trying to utilize it.

 

“we were gonna go to the park today,” one of the voices whines right back far too close to his sensitive ears than he personally prefers.

 

“yeah, you said you'd buy the ice cream.” he doesn't even have to have his eyes open to hear the grin in the not-so-friendly reminder. (brats, every last one of them)

 

he's not entirely sure who's talking but he's not really invested in what they're saying anyway so he simply grunts and resigns himself to the person sitting on top of him. the pressure's actually kind of nice on his too-light and too-heavy body (maybe he's levitating), keeping him anchored as well as pushing him deeper into the couch cushions – oh. the _couch._ (definitely not levitating)

 

he fell asleep on the couch. 'crashed' is more accurate a term, after staying up even later than usual working on an especially stubborn track until he could see the sky rinsing to periwinkle when he bothered to glance out the window. (but 'fell asleep' works too)

 

before he can react (not that he'd have the energy to), cold fingers yank the blanket off from his head and warm breath fans over his ear just as an irritatingly familiar voice crows _'wake up!'_ straight into his _brain._

 

it actually makes his ear ache a little, how _wonderful._

 

“o _kay,_ ” he relents, because he's nice like that, mustering enough strength in a moment of pettiness to _shove_ the body hovering over his face _and_ the one sitting atop him like a vulture as he pulls himself upright. his ears pulse a little more and it's now accompanied by a high-pitched ringing, but he just scowls at his members from over the edge of the blanket he still clutches around his body.

 

a small hint of a smile twitches at his lips when he spots what he thinks is a lee felix on the floor, most likely one of the people harassing him into consciousness, _ha._

 

but then he rocks to his feet and the room disappears into a world of cotton in his eyes and ears and mouth and his body feels heavier than a fucking _mountain, what the fuck-_

 

his eyes are still open but it takes a few good seconds for his mind to register the face hovering next to him, dark eyes and a sprinkle of freckles coming into focus first, and then the second face not too far behind, all big concerned eyes and worried frowns.

 

he realizes that he is, in fact, now on the floor.

 

“hyung?” the second face says – _jeongin –_ voice light and small, but a part of him is thankful he can actually hear it instead of the ringing.

 

he hums in answer, as if he wasn't crumpled in a heap on the floor feeling like he was made of bricks instead of flesh and bone with a headache now hammering nails into his skull along to the quick pace of his far-too-heavily-beating heart. his face scrunches of its own accord, wincing through the pain and the light filtering past their heads.

 

he'd feel ridiculous but he just wants to go back to sleep. not that he'd be able to at this point.

 

a hand presses against his forehead and one of two worried frowns gets deeper.

 

“is he sick?” seungmin asks, suddenly just _there,_ warm eyes flicking to felix just as chan closes his own.

 

“i think so?” comes felix's reply, hand still occupying his forehead until it just barely runs through his hair. it feels nice in contrast to the pricks of pain in his head, now thrumming back down to a quieter ache.

 

“wait, what, _no,_ ” and maybe that's his own voice, leaping from his tongue before he can even form the words in his head first. (what else is new) “not sick. just tired, lemme sleep.” yeah, that's his voice, thick with exhaustion even he can detect, and yeah, he's _exhausted, sue him,_ but that's nothing sleeping in won't fix. tried and true method.

 

“it's already almost noon, hyung.” he can't tell who says it, probably jeongin, but he doesn't like what they're saying because um, _what?_

 

_no?_

 

“...no it's not,” he argues rather petulantly, but he's feeling strange and floaty and _tired,_ so petulance it is.

 

“it's eleven-thirty,” and there's felix again, along with his hand, landing softly on his hair and staying there. he hums approvingly and burrows further back into his blanket. like a beaver. beavers burrow, right?

 

“ _no, no, no,_ not yet; we need to get you off the floor. you can sleep after that. maybe.”

 

 _'maybe',_ as if it was up for discussion. no thank you.

 

“but the floor's nice,” he's quick to retort because it _is,_ and it's nice and cool and... not so nice on his aching body, but not so much that he can't fall back asleep within seconds if he wants to, and he _wants to._ “just gimme a minute.” there's also the fact that actually getting up off the floor feels like it might cost him his _soul, he's so fucking tired, how about no_ and the thought alone makes him want to maybe cry just a little bit.

 

okay, maybe he's sick. (no, he's _not_ )

 

but he doesn't actually say any of this out loud so he shouldn't be surprised when hands grab at him and pull him into a sitting position, but he _is,_ and he whines some more and hunches into himself. like a rollie pollie, and he nearly rolls to the side but the stupid hands hold him in place, _traitors, all of them._

 

“i don't wanna be... not horizontal,” he mumbles, eyes still closed but he can feel the room spinning anyway and okay, maybe he feels a little nauseous, maybe more than just a little nauseous, not good – _shit,_ what if he throws up, _fuck, fuck, fuck-_

 

maybe he's just that easy to read (because he definitely did _not_ make any pitiful sounds in desperation for a bin to throw up into instead of the floor, no) because there's a hand holding him steady as well as a small trash bin shoved under his face when his eyes pop open just in time to start heaving.

 

it's out of _fucking nowhere_ and sweat quickly beads uncomfortably over his skin, body shuddering like a leaf in the wind, and he _really fucking hates throwing up._ it's been actual _years_ since he last did _,_ hasn't allowed himself to since then, always able to stay up _all night_ if need be in order to stave off any nausea but _no,_ it just has to hit him like a fucking _wave._

 

he doesn't know how long his body twists itself up trying to expel food that's not even there (it's been like twenty hours since he last ate anything; his body has nothing to _feel sick_ over, for fuck's sake), but it might as well be forever because he can feel every millisecond of it, saliva and bile and whatever the hell else closing his throat up while his head continues to pound and his eyes water behind closed lids.

 

...okay _fine._ he's _sick._ (fucking _sick_ )

 

by the time he's done, there's a new voice floating in and out of his stuffed ears, the bin pulled somewhere out of sight and the room looking almost like a mirage as he just... stares, blinking blearily and taking a sip of the glass of water that's suddenly under his nose but refusing more than just that; he will _not_ give his body more things to use against him, no matter how desperately he wants the taste of stomach acid out of his mouth.

 

he keeps trembling in intervals, on and off like a broken valve, and maybe he's just a bit shaken and miserable but it comes with the territory when you're absolutely terrified of vomiting. (which is actually the worst)

 

god, why did it have to be the _stomach flu?_

 

“must be flu season again, huh, hyung?” and that's the new voice, a sharp face suddenly in front of his own, lips tilted in a sympathetic smile.

 

he just nods slowly.

 

changbin smiles a little more and pats his arm, looking to chan's left where arms still seem to be holding him steady, cold fingers squeezing the base of his neck. they feel nice on his suddenly flushed skin, or maybe he's only just now noticing how warm he is, but he's still also cold, his own hands and feet chilled compared to the rest of his body.

 

“we should get him to bed.” (how about no)

 

 _wait,_ uh, no? _fuck no?_

 

he shakes his head until it almost starts spinning again and clings instinctively to the nearest cling-worthy object, which seems to be felix's arms and the blanket still choking the life out of him. he can feel the many pairs of eyes watching, staring, concerned, some probably never having seen him in such a pathetic state, but he's _not moving,_ absolutely _not,_ not again.

 

“ _no,_ ” he says as much, throat sore and itchy and he stops to clear it at risk of inducing his gag reflex again, _fucking great,_ but he manages. “no moving again.”

 

he really doesn't wanna talk when any movement in his throat feels like it could set him off but he is _not moving again._

 

fortunately, changbin understands, having been there last time when chan stayed up for nearly three days just to keep from throwing up (he's not fucking around; the stomach flu _sucks_ and he was going on a record of seven years since he caved to it. before today, anyways, way to go). the younger's lips press into a line but he eventually nods, standing from his crouched position and moving out of sight. chan doesn't bother containing his relief, sagging back and letting his eyes close.

 

fuck the flu.

 

“do you wanna lie down?” rumbles around him, the hands at his back shifting in place.

 

he thinks about it before shrugging lightly but already starts sliding down into a fetal position, knees tucked and face pressed into them, blanket tugged tighter over his back like a turtle shell where felix's hands begin to rub circles.

 

“where is everyone?” he manages past the lump in his throat, eyes squeezed shut because fuck having them open.

 

seungmin answers. “the others went grocery shopping... for the picnic.”

 

“...mm,” he answers lowly, squirming to press his hands into his eyes. he just had to ruin that too, great. all of them looked forward to their picnics. especially when he volunteered to buy them ice cream afterward, much to his wallet's complaint.

 

his stomach does a flip at the thought of food and he curls over further to press his forehead against the floor.

 

a new hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes until he lifts his head, the sight of changbin with a pillow and another blanket swimming slightly in front of him until he reaches out to take the former and quickly hug it to his chest and return to his hunched position. the current blanket is tugged off of him (he puts up a fight but Weak Kitten Chan comes back to bat and loses in a matter of seconds) and replaced with the new one, blessedly cool and clean and _wow,_ remind him to never clown changbin ever again for anything at all ever. not even the aegyo. (that he does literally _all_ the time)

 

“thank you,” he says, but it's mostly muffled by the pillow so he wonders if any of them actually hear it. he tilts his head to the side to continue, even if it pulls uncomfortably at his throat. “and sorry. i'll get ready for the picnic, just give me a second, yeah?”

 

changbin actually snorts from... somewhere. up. upwards, someplace. “you're not going to the picnic.”

 

his stomach would seem to agree. _but._ but, but, but.

 

he will _not_ ruin this. nope. their free days felt few and far between – even though they were fairly regular – with how busy they were, and he isn't going to ruin it just by being a sorry sick piece of trash.

 

so yeah. picnic. going.

 

“yes i am,” he insists after realizing it's probably been a while, tongue moving clumsily in his mouth. “we always have our picnics.”

 

“yeah, well, not when we're sick. you're staying, we're staying, nobody's having any picnics today... unless any of the others still want to go, but...”

 

“no, no, we're... i don't really wanna go anymore,” felix interrupts quietly, voice still coming from chan's left and hand still dutifully massaging patterns on his back. it makes him want to just pass out again, leave the land of the living for even just a second. thank jesus christ for felix's parents. thank jesus christ for felix.

 

“yeah, me neither,” jeongin pitches in, a small sound of agreement coming from who chan assumes is still seungmin.

 

he just pouts. “yeah, but you only don't wanna go because i'm sick.”

 

“of course we don't wanna go because you're sick,” seungmin continues. “it's not fun if it's not all of us. and like changbin hyung said, you're not going.”

 

...yeah, _fuck the flu._

 

he simply pouts some more and turns his face back into the pillow, taking as deep a breath he can through his nose and letting it out carefully. he doesn't want to stay, ruin their little respite by keeping the rest of them cooped up in their dorm when they don't need to be; they'll probably catch whatever it is as well, which he would _not_ wish on anyone, not his worst enemy and especially not his friends. (call him dramatic but _he hates the fucking stomach flu_ )

 

“you shouldn't touch me,” he grumbles, thinking once again he _really_ shouldn't aggravate his throat further but, you know, priorities.

 

except felix doesn't even pause in his ministrations, which is both good and not good. mostly not good.

 

“you'll get sick too,” it's still muffled and he really wants to never open his mouth ever again if it means he won't ever throw up again, and the continued provocation of the tickle in the back of his throat makes his frame tremble some more, stomach swooping uneasily.

 

“i'll get sick anyway.”

 

 _maybe_ that's true, but it doesn't have to be. in their line of work especially, it's _not good_ to get sick.

 

but felix is also soothing and the light touches are distracting the knots in his stomach so he lets it go, sinking lower to the floor and trying to coax his own muscles into relaxing one by one until he's at least somewhat comfortable. his breathing evens out, though he keeps it shallow, still on guard, but it's enough to have him dozing surrounded by the comforting presence of the younger members nearby.

 

-

 

he wakes much more peacefully that last time but perhaps just as slow, limbs still heavy like lead and pressing down on his own body, head still aching as a background noise, but everything's almost unnervingly quiet now. it sounds like static in his ears until the sound of light footsteps pattering around and hushed voices filter through his drowsy mind.

 

he likes it, the quiet but alive atmosphere. it almost lulls him back to sleep with a smile on his face, but ice-like fingers comb through his hair (or maybe he's still just hot) before poking gently at his cheek.

 

“hyung, are you awake?”

 

still felix then, except he can feel his head lying in a lap now instead of the floor.

 

he debates actually answering or not for a moment but figures that's just mean, especially with the whole picnic-cancelled-because-of-him thing, so he just hums in answer. or, tries to, but it slides awkwardly past his vocal cords and just leaves his muscles bunching a soundless breath of air through his nose. it's almost sad, but he's not awake enough to care yet.

 

the hand in his hair squeezes lightly.

 

“you wanna try some water?”

 

a pause, but he nods. his throat is fucking _dry._

 

...and yet he doesn't actually move because the last time he sat up, it didn't go well _at all_ and it's suddenly a blaring alarm going off in his head. his skull throbs.

 

felix must be a mind reader or something (or something like possessing common sense and average recall) because he squeezes his shoulder and says 'slower this time' even as he makes no move to force him up, other hand still gently moving over his scalp. his headache lessens a bit... maybe he considers a do-over.

 

maybe he's just really thirsty.

 

he nods again and makes to lever his arms underneath himself, but a new pair of hands is already easing him up, almost painfully slow, his eyes still closed against the change of position. maybe opening them would make it easier for his brain to orient itself but he doesn't feel like it. they feel glued shut again anyway.

 

slow and steady wins the race because nothing but his headache flares up once he's vertical (at least from the waist up), but he doesn't trust his body not to betray him and keeps his pillow clutched tightly to his chest. just in case.

 

he doesn't even open his eyes when he feels the rim of a cup pressed to his lips.

 

the water is blessedly cool down his throat and... at least somewhat easy on his stomach, but he only allows himself a few sips more than last time, not willing to risk it, _fucking stomach flu._

 

he hears a small sigh, perhaps disappointment, but whoever it is doesn't push it.

 

“good?” and it's jisung, voice bright but not too bright, close by; probably the one who got the water.

 

he nods, testing his throat with a small 'good' and it comes out audibly if not a little rough around the edges, but hey, at least he still has his voice at all. he was starting wonder after basically puking his guts up. not that anything but the bare minimum actually came up.

 

speaking of, he knows what jisung's going to ask before he even asks it.

 

“changbin-hyung managed to catch us before we left the store and we picked up a few things. you think you can handle a little apple sauce or something?”

 

but he sounds earnest and legitimately concerned and hopeful (when does he not) and chan has a hard time saying no to jisung's particular brand of caring, but in the end self preservation wins and he gives a minute shake of his head even as he braces himself for the protests.

 

there's a long pause.

 

“when's the last time you ate?”

 

he winces internally. and externally. “...dinner, yesterday.”

 

and he doesn't need to tell any of them that in order for them to remember what he had; a quick mouthful of rice and potato chips, arguably a dinner at all but he was already late and ready to get to work, and it's not like he knew he'd be sick as a dog the next day, how was he supposed to _know?_ (if he did, he'd at least get to throw himself off a bridge and save himself the misery)

 

(perhaps a bit dark but he resonates)

 

“you know hunger pains will just make it worse.” more of a statement than a question.

 

except he doesn't give a fuck; at least this way if he throws up there'll be nothing to _throw up._ much more preferable.

 

“don't care.” he explains himself rather succinctly, he must say.

 

“you'll care when it makes you nauseous.”

 

“not if i throw up again and nothing comes out.”

 

he can feel the awkwardness emanate from behind him where felix still hovers close by, hands planted solid on his shoulders. probably hasn't seen much arguing between them, at least not seriously, but chan can't really blame jisung for this one. not that it will even last long enough to become an argument, he knows.

 

and sure enough, jisung doesn't bother after that, simply standing to probably put his prepared apple sauce back in the fridge. he does pass his hand over chan's head for a brief moment before he goes. it makes him feel young and weak but it lets him know jisung isn't mad or anything so he doesn't mind _too_ much. he _does_ pull his freakily stuck eyes open just to give him the stink eye though, which he will admit is one of the dumbest things he could do in response but he's not exactly what you would call lucid.

 

the light in the room practically blinds him and brings the dull ache in his head up to a throbbing flame almost immediately, and maybe he regrets his childish gesture just a little bit, enough to swear himself off of future childish behavior for _at least_ a week. (he really is a funny guy)

 

he must make some sort of dumb ass noise because felix's hands move up to his head ever so carefully and begin messaging his temples, touch light but still effective, _magic._

 

“thanks,” he sighs, wilting a bit to bury the bottom half of his face into his pillow.

 

“ 'course.”

 

he hesitates opening his eyes again, skull still pulsing in time with his heart, although lessening gradually.

 

“could, um...” he lifts his face back out of the pillow, licking his lips. “could someone get the, uh-the light?”

 

there's no response, but quick footsteps patter across the room and he can hear the distinct click of the light being switched off as well as see the faint glow behind his eyelids darken. he releases another sigh of relief and nods. “thanks.”

 

...he feels silly.

 

when he opens his eyes, he sees he's still where he was when he first fell; about a foot from the couch. said couch is now occupied by many bodies though, all meeting his gaze with one of their own in various forms of friendly and sympathetic. hyunjin's flopping back onto the couch between woojin and seungmin (most likely the one to shut off the light, bless him), leaning most of his body weight on the former and pulling his knees up to his chest. woojin has his phone in hand but smiles when he spots chan staring, a sliver of teeth showing, and seungmin is leaning forward to give him a little wave.

 

“hey,” he says simply, looking as if he doesn't know if he should smile or not. it may or may not melt chan's already overheated heart.

 

“hey,” he mimics, smiling until the other boy smiles back.

 

minho suddenly slides straight off the couch to the floor right beside him, face alight and warm with a grin.

 

“how're you feeling?” he chirps, eyebrows creasing is concern, the sudden change in expression giving chan whiplash but he focuses on getting his tongue working again.

 

“um,” he interrupts himself to assess – how _does_ he feel?

 

...fucking trippy? everything feels distant and cottony, like he's been removed from his body yet painfully aware of what his body's feeling, every action delayed and just as light and feathery as it is heavy and sore, head full and tight, stomach doing flip-flops if he lets himself think about it but he _doesn't, nope,_ he just swallows the lump in his throat until his ears crackle.

 

“...i feel like shit.”

 

woojin snorts. “you look like it.”

 

“you really do,” minho feels the need to add, nodding resolutely. jeongin's slack-jawed in the background.

 

he scowls.

 

that is, until minho laughs and leans in to leave a light peck on his nose, to which he wrinkles said nose and leans away... which actually just makes his head hurt, so he pouts instead, arms snaking out to capture minho like a venus fly trap and pull him in before he can scamper back on the couch. he knows both of them are very much aware minho could easily extract himself from his rather weak (for lack of a better word) hold, but he doesn't, letting chan hook his chin over his shoulder and close his eyes contentedly.

 

they're some kind of train at this point, minho in front, pinning chan's pillow to his chest, chan in the middle, and felix at the back, already once again tracing soothing patterns along his spine.

 

he feels spoiled but he can't bring himself to mind.

 

a sigh pulls itself from his lungs and he feels his body go lax, rather uncomfortably at that, still sitting up but having extended his legs in order to hold minho snug, all hunched over and further disturbing the aches and pains throughout his body.

 

not to mention his stomach is starting to squirm again.

 

lax quickly returns to stiff, _fuck's sake,_ and he forces himself to unravel minho from his arms and un-hunch his spine, the vertebrates already creaking on a grimace.

 

“sorry,” he murmurs, for his sudden change in position. but minho smiles and shakes his head, crawling out of reach and leaning back against the couch before outstretching his arms and making, well, very adorable grabby hands until chan slinks forward on heavy limbs.

 

he doesn't have to go far, but it still proves difficult, lungs tight, stomach cramping, and every muscle push and pulled spreading a dull pain across his frame until he curls up in what woojin would later describe as 'like a kitten' in minho's lap, using his thigh as a pillow so he can keep spooning his actual pillow. he breathes through the pounding in his head until a hand returns to its ministrations in his hair instead of on his back.

 

a quick peek reveals felix dutifully hovering close, minho grinning down at him when he notices his glance and lightly dropping his hand on his shoulder to offer a soft squeeze.

 

he spies jeongin's head poking over the edge of the couch to watch them with pinched brows, lips turned down ever so slightly, before he lets his eyelids droop back shut.

 

“i'm alright, jeongin-ah,” he says, forcing a single lid back open to acknowledge the boy's presence. it grows, the youngest sitting up just a little bit and blinking the frown off his face. “just sick is all. i'll be good as new tomorrow.”

 

(a fucking _lie,_ but it's the thought that counts, right?)

 

...no, he's not that stupid.

 

“okay, maybe not tomorrow, but really soon, yeah?” there. better.

 

jeongin nods and scoots a little closer, squishing himself against woojin before smiling just a little. and yes, that's what he was aiming for, his eyes closing now that he's done what he set out to do by keeping them open in the first place (which was actually a lot harder than he thought it would be, _fuck_ the _flu_ ).

 

he drifts after that, aware of the hand in his hair, the body under his own, the scattered conversation passing quietly somewhere above but not enough to listen in as much as just lull him to half-sleep.

 

-

 

he wakes for the third time that day absolutely _chilled,_ head pulsating from the moment he's awake enough to notice it and core almost stiflingly warm but not enough to have him drenched in sweat just yet. but he does squirm under the blanket he's drowning in, pushing until he finds the edge to pull it down to his waist at least. his eyes open much easier than the first two times and he finds everyone exactly where he last saw them, sans felix and seungmin, so he must've only been out for a little while, maybe an hour at most.

 

minho's smile is smaller but still there when chan meets it.

 

“how long?” he asks, voice already croaky again, _lovely._

 

minho half shrugs. “couple hours.” and great, a _couple_ hours, of him probably crushing minho and sweating on him ( _gross,_ he feels _gross_ ). but his stomach is swooping dangerously and he finds himself sitting up off of the younger anyway, hugging his knees to his chest and trapping his pillow there still. he takes in shallow breaths through his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“hyung?”

 

he can feel the attention in the room quietly shift back to him.

 

“you gonna throw up?”

 

 _no,_ he is absolutely _not_ going to throw up, and he shakes his head as much, curling his fingers into fists and alternating from keeping them open to closed, keeping himself busy, fidgeting, anxiety already making the nausea even _worse,_ why the _fuck_ does he have to be so scared of vomiting, a perfectly normal human function?

 

he digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and keeps himself from making any stupid sounds of _i'm scared and in pain_ , because, um, _he's scared and in pain._

 

when he cracks his eyes open, woojin is suddenly there, bin in hand, and he already feels himself shaking his head again.

 

woojin purses his lips in sympathy and crouches down so he's eye level. “you'll feel better.”

 

he _knows_ that but it doesn't make throwing up any more appealing or make him any less terrified of the experience. he already threw up earlier, he doesn't need to do it again, no matter what his dumbass body is trying to tell him.

 

so _no,_ he doesn't care if he'll feel better and he _will not_ be hurling his guts up anytime soon.

 

“hyung, c'mon, you're just hurting yourself for no reason,” it's spoken almost meekly, jisung's sudden voice further away than woojin's but still close by. he can't say he's surprised; jisung always approached his adamant refusal with attempts at reasoning and yeah, _he fucking knows,_ but he also doesn't _care,_ this should be obvious at this point. he knows it doesn't make sense but most phobias don't.

 

(is it a phobia? it doesn't really matter; he doesn't want to vomit either way)

 

but he doesn't want to be mad at him, knows he means well, and he's too exhausted to be mad but his fever keeps messing with his mood anyway.

 

_he feels like shit._

 

he starts a small rock side to side, slight but soothing, and he keeps it up until his stomach starts to settle, and then some because he scared if he stops it'll flare up again.

 

“he's not gonna do it,” and there's changbin, who sort of resigned himself to chan's strange resolve the first time 'round. “you'd be able to tell if he was actually about to hurl.” he says it lightly, the microscopic smirk audible in his voice, and chan frowns (even though he's actually sort of thankful for the interjection) but keeps up his self-soothing.

 

“you've literally only seen me throw up once,” he points out, which is true; just earlier today, that's it. though, to be fair, he has no idea what he looks like when he's about to lose his lunch, so maybe it really is that noticeable in comparison.

 

what a nice thought.

 

“i've also seen you _not_ throw up many times.”

 

(touché) smartass.

 

“i wanna go back to sleep,” he definitely does _not_ whine, and he definitely is not still rocking back and forth like a child except he is, pride be fucking damned, he's a whiney crybaby and he hates being sick and throwing up and he just wants to go back to _sleep_ where he can't feel anything anymore.

 

warm arms wrap around him from behind, a solid chin settling on his shoulder.

 

“you're cute when you're sick,” and of course it's minho, smug bastard. but he's rocking him now instead, which is a relief cause the motion is surprisingly exhausting when you're already sick and, well, exhausted.

 

“you're mean when you're... mean.” brilliant retort, yes. his three braincells are thriving.

 

minho just smooches his head and nuzzles into his neck. like a... mother cat. ugh, he loves cats. cats are the best. he wants a cat. dogs are better though, he just wants a dog to snuggle. minho will have to do, alas. but he wrinkles his nose at the affection anyway.

 

“some food might help, dummy. hunger pains could be making it worse,” he continues, voice almost stiflingly close but he keeps rocking him so he can't complain about the proximity.

 

but he can and will complain about the words themselves because he wants to.

 

“no. it'd make it worse.”

 

“how would you know?” changbin snorts. “it's not like you've ever tried.” (...he already used up his daily 'touché')

 

“my body, loser,” he simply huffs, lower lip puffing out – _not,_ his lower lip is _not,_ no, he's not pouting _again_ , he is a mature adult.

 

“okay, okay, fine, you don't have to eat,” minho interjects, chan suspects before they can continue arguing or something. not like he had the energy to but he might've been petty and feverish enough, you never know. the power of sleep deprivation. not that he's been sleeping the entire day away or anything. “let's try sleeping again, hm? i'll rock you. like a baby.”

 

he can hear the smile in his voice. it's annoying.

 

(except he does as he's told straight away and falls asleep just as minho described: rocked to sleep like a baby. he may or may not still be too tired to care so it's fine; as long as nobody makes fun of him for it, the brats)

 

-

 

he comes back to the land of the living with a surprisingly clear mind, almost immediately registering the matress he recognizes as his own cradling his still too heavy body at the same time as he distantly recalls migrating there on barely-awake legs. it's comfortable, but just like the blanket on the floor, the blankets on his bed are stifling and semi-damp under the force of his fever. (gross)

 

felix and changbin are huddled on the latter's bed watching something on a phone when he blinks his eyes open.

 

he simply watches until felix glances up and notices, nudging the elder until he too meets his gaze.

 

“yikes, he's really out of it,” is the first thing changbin says, smirk both joking and fond, which, uh, _rude,_ and he frowns to convey his ruffled metaphorical feathers but his head pounds so it disappears rather quickly. everything feels fuzzy like cotton in his ears and a haze keeps the light feeling bright even if it's just the sunset peeking through the curtains, the shadows swimming and alive in contrast. the actual ceiling light is off though, which is _really_ nice.

 

and changbin is suddenly right in front of his face, a _cold_ hand cupping his forehead as felix watches from over his shoulder.

 

the hand soothes his headache, funnily enough. or maybe not funny, probably obvious. he wants an ice pack.

 

changbin's lips quirk down. (... _not_ good?)

 

“it's still pretty high,” he says, voice somehow both loud and quiet. muffled. that's the word.

 

he closes his eyes and reaches out with a heavy hand to keep changbin's on his forehead when it goes to pull away. ' _feels nice_ ' is what he wants to say, but his throat just kind of rumbles and nothing really comes out, but he thinks his actions speak louder than words anyway.

 

his roommate might say something to felix after that, but he's not sure since everything is fading back into white noise and doused in the black of his eyelids and he's already far, far away.

 

-

 

somehow, he knows night's fallen the next time he wakes up.

 

being sick at night was always worse than day, for some unknown and absolutely irritating reason. everything was more tangible, every ache and pain, every uncomfortable sensation thrumming through his body all at once, like all the activity and noise during the day had been subconcisouly distracting his mind from noticing it before. and once it all went away, he no longer had anything to distract it from, it was just _there,_ loud and incessent. time slows to a microscopic crawl no matter how much he wishes it'd just fly by. it's like he enters a different fucking  _dimension._

 

he hates nighttime when he's sick.

 

he sits up in bed almost immediately, the room tilting and twirling like a carnival ride but not so much that he doesn't spot changbin curled up on the other side of the room, sleeping. the dorm is quiet save the thumping in his ears, _still,_ and he swears he can feel his chest actually twitch with each beat of his heart.

 

he inhales through his nose.

 

it's _hot._

 

still somewhat dazed, he wobbles to his feet, clinging to his bed until he's confident enough to tiptoe out of the room. at least, he hopes he tiptoes, but he'd rather not faceplant or anything on the way to the kitchen. the change in position has his head pounding all the way there, legs weak and skin flaring uncomfortably under the cool night air. (even his _skin_ feels sick)

 

he makes it to the kitchen doorway and it's like his body catches there, snagging on the door frame except it doesn't; he's just standing there, staring at the countertops.

 

kitchen.

 

his head feels like someone's cramming it full of clay with their bare hands. maybe somebody is, you never know. (nobody is, but he does glance behind for the shits 'n giggles)

 

right, his _head._ it fucking hurts. medicine. aspirin. _something._

 

cupboards are swung open at random – he's not sure if they even _have_ aspirin on hand. you'd think the others would've thought to get some if they got him other remedies for his rather pitiful state.

 

and yet.

 

he can't find anything. fan-fucking-tastic. he can barely even keep his eyes open and he keeps stopping to press his fingertips into his temples but it seems to just be making the pressure _worse._ maybe it's because his hands won't stop shaking, maybe it's because each second he's standing is a second too long and he thinks the room just might tip him over any minute now if he doesn't _sit down._

 

the floor will do, and it's blessedly _cold,_ even if it pulses unpleasantly over his body like a bruise. he tucks his head into his knees and digs the heels of his palms into his skull. god, what he'd give to pester felix until he massaged his fucking _head_ again. head massages are a thing, right?

 

but he doesn't want to wake anyone up. medicine isn't a necessity – _tea,_ they have _tea,_ peppermint tea. or chaomile. his mom would make him _tons_ of tea during finals when he'd get stress headaches.

 

oh.

 

maybe that's what this was. headaches aren't common in the stomach flu, are they? maybe?

 

_regardless. tea._

 

he doesn't stop to think about how his stomach was already rejecting the idea far before he'd even thought it up (thanks migraine) as he tears the already-opened peppermint tea box open and manages to fill a perhaps worryingly large mug with tap water and stuff it in the microwave for two minutes. he waits on the floor and tries not to let the pressure literally drive him insane, fucking _yay._

 

the shrill microwave beep has him practically jumping out of his skin and clapping his hands over his ears.

 

stupid _machine._ (s'posed to _help_ him, not _hurt_ him)

 

he bobs the tea bag until it stains the water the slightest gold, even squishing it with a spoon a few times to speed it up because _he might actually pass out, hurry the fuck up._

 

it's too warm, hot even, uncomfortable in his hands but he doesn't want to drink it cold; heat rises, right? does that apply to consumables too? something to google later. when his head isn't about to explode.

 

he second-guesses his choice of mug in hindsight when he nearly drops it due to its weight. (Even Weaker Kitten Chan)

 

 _slow sips, slow sips,_ is what he tells himself for a multitude of reasons; the heat, his stupid weak kitten hands that still won't stop trembling, his stomach that he is definitely ignoring one hundred percent, he just needs _something_ to _work._ he might have a mental breakdown if he can't get his head to fucking _chill._

 

he thinks he might actually be dying but onto more important things! like continuing to sip his tea and will his head into not exploding, please, that would be really gross and would make the biggest mess. (he does have quite the brains to go around, he must say) okay, maybe dying wouldn't be so bad. can't be sick if you're dead, so _ha._ take that flu.

 

fuck the fucking flu, fuck.

 

he definitely does _not_ tear up or fantasize about clawing his skull open in order to release the pressure until the tea must start doing _something_ , because it dies down just enough that he doesn't think he'll scream bloody murder or jump out the nearest window anymore. possibly. at least until further notice. it's _something._

 

but of course his gag reflex is still kicking from the headache and becoming an increasingly noticeable problem, but he doesn't stop his tea-sipping just yet, and maybe the constant swallowing is even keeping it at bay, but – _headache_ is still his current priority, yes.

 

his body just really fucking hates him today. or yesterday _and_ today. what time is it? (the clock is too blurry to read up on the opposite wall but _point_ )

 

call him a child, but he falls back to rocking, as if that will keep his stomach from revolting and distract his brain from, well... his brain. his brain that feels like it might leak out of his ears any moment if it hasn't already.

 

he rocks until his eyelids droop and the mug nearly slips from his hands, but he can't actually fall _asleep._

 

“fuck you,” he slurs past his too heavy tongue at nobody in particular. his head, maybe. his stomach. his entire body, _fuck you, body, you're_ _the fucking worst._ he doesn't want to live on the physical plain of existence anymore, never has. he wants to be a ghost. ghosts are living their best lives. (except they're kind of dead so maybe not but still)

 

his headache dissolves to occasional twinges like static electricity across his cheekbones, stabbing into the back of his eyes, but it's managable and he finds himself relaxing only just but it's hard to feel relief when the tea is finally settling deep in his stomach and his _stomach doesn't like it._

 

jesus. jesus christ, like actual _jesus christ, god, please._ he wants to die. heaven would be nice right about now. though, maybe he'd go to hell. but he wouldn't have a pysical body there, right? so no puking.

 

sounds like a fair trade.

 

he abandons his tea to simply wrap his arms around his knees, close his eyes, and focus on nothing but the repatative motion of left to right, left, right, left, right, side to side, following an imaginary beat in his head to float atop of, not daring to even swallow in case it triggers something.

 

it feels like walking a tightrope; every time he feels himself drifting and his rocking comes to a halt, the naesea spikes again and _that_ wakes him the fuck back up. so rocking it is, hell, _forever_ if need be; he will _not_ throw up again. he made a pact. to... himself. no throwing up. ever again. not an option. and that's that. period.

 

(so he's fucking dramatic, and?)

 

“hyung?”

 

he might've shrieked like a banshee if he was lucid enough to, but instead all his body can manage is a sharp jolt and a wave of pins and needles from the sudden rush of adrenaline. his head whips up and his rocking hiccups, (unfortunately) and he squints at the figure in the doorway even though it's dark and having his face buried in his knees kept his vision beyond adjusted to it.

 

said figure takes a few hesitent steps forward, keeping a hand on the counter as a guide through the blackness.

 

“chan-hyung?” it repeats, and he belatedly recognized the voice as hyunjin's.

 

except he doesn't dare use his voice at the moment, so he simply grabs hyunjin's free hand when he's close enough and gives it a dazed pat.

 

“are you okay?” and hyunjin immediately crouches down next to him, grasp following the path of his arms up to his shoulders, then forehead, most likely checking for a fever but a small part of chan still wonders if maybe his brain is for real leaking everywhere. that would be unfortunate. “do you need me to get changbin-hyung?”

 

funny, how changbin had so quickly and unofficially been appointed resident Aquainted With Christopher Bang And His Complicated Relationship With The Stomach Flu person in charge. probably –

 

“or maybe jisung?”

 

– jisung too, yeah.

 

(poor them)

 

hyunjin leans impossibly closer in his personal space and chan realizes he hasn't responded or done really anything in a while, so he shakes his head just as he starts rocking again because _nope,_ he will not lose his _vigilence._ not worth the risk, _no._

 

“are you sure?” he prods, and chan nods before he's even finished. “why aren't you talking? does your throat hurt?” and he sounds genuinely almost panicked – not quite that extreme, but the concern is just as palpable as the uncertainty. he's probably never seen chan such a mess before. (chan wishes he never would, but here they are, _fucking stomach flu_ )

 

“no,” he forces out for hyunjin's sake, which _really_ isn't necessary and _really_ doesn't make much sense, but he _does it_ and regrets it when his throat knots precariously.

 

several seconds of silence pass, then hyunjin leans back on his heels and looks him up and down for what feels like the first time, taking in his probably very much pitiful stature, all curled up on the floor and rocking side to side like a baby.

 

“you worried you might throw up again?” he asks after an audible pause, but it sounds more like a statement.

 

(quick learner, that kid)

 

he nods and tries to contain his sigh of relief, though he's not sure what he's relieved for. maybe hyunjin has a magical cure for stomach flus tucked up his sleeve. maybe he's secretly a wizard and can cast a quick healing spell that leaves him good as new and he can go back to sleep and never do this again.

 

(maybe chan's just desperate)

 

“i'm gonna go get jisung,” and just like that hyunjin stands, but um, _no,_ jisung is most likely blissfully unaware of all of this mess and sleeping peacefully, so chan clings to his leg and bites out a quick ' _no'_ despite his survival insticts telling him not to do just that. “ _hyung,_ i don't know how to help you.”

 

chan shakes his head and sighs. “can't. go back to sleep.” he hopes that's sufficient enough because hyunjin _can't_ help him; neither can jisung, or changbin, or anyone else aside from a wizard or a doctor that he doesn't _need_ to see as long as he just rides this out like he and every other normal person who's gotten the stomach flu has done before. (a.k.a. as long as he stops being a giant baby)

 

there's only silence for a long moment and a soft hand falls in his hair (which, rude; just cause he's sick doesn't mean he's not still A Hyung – just cause he acts like a baby doesn't _make_ him one), but only for another moment which is much shorter than the silence in comparison before he speaks.

 

“you're stubborn. and annoying.”

 

(brat)

 

fair enough.

 

“yes,” is all he thinks to say, though he's once again reminded why he didn't want to speak at all when his throat nearly closes up and his eyes sting from the force in which he resists just bolting for the sink and hurling up every last thing in his stomach.

 

_breathe through it._

 

as subtly as one can, he eases off of hyunjin to resume his self-soothing and rewraps his arms around his knees instead. what he wants more than not throwing up right now is not throwing up on hyunjin, preferably.

 

“wanna try moving to the couch at least?” hyunjin asks, sounding hopeful but chan doesn't want to risk _anything_ at the moment, so-

 

he shakes his head before dropping it on his kneecaps. he listens to the sound of hyunjin hovering, clothes rustling like breaking glass in the quiet at the slightest movement, then the sound of his footsteps eventually retreating, and he lets himself relax a little.

 

except not ten seconds later, there's more footsteps and they're coming back and a body is suddenly plopping down next to his and a blanket gets tossed over them both.

 

despite his better judgement, he peeks open an eye to see hyunjin huddled down next to him, phone in hand and youtube app opening.

 

he doesn't know what he tries to say but all he does is hum, so maybe he wasn't trying to say anything. the noise sounds vaguely like an acknowledgement of sorts, and hyunjin scoots as close as he can without disturbing chan's repetative motions. he types something in and suddenly there are puppies on the screen and chan's brain is sufficiently distracted. or at least the closest it can get, considering.

 

he squints at the rather harsh lighting of the screen even though he's pretty sure the brightness is turned down as low as it can go and makes out the title of the video.

 

'the cutest puppies compilation'

 

he finds it in himself to keep staring at the screen even if it burns his eyes and makes them ache until they close and all he can hear is his breathing mixed with hyunjin's and cute puppy sounds from a shitty phone speaker.

 

-

 

he's not entirely sure if he falls asleep. he doesn't think so because he remains ever aware of hyunjin's easy breathing and occasional coos at the screen and he doesn't stop rocking even if it slows. but maybe he's hallucinating all of it and his fever's high enough to kill him any moment now. that'd be something. at least he wouldn't be sick anymore.

 

(ugh, he _is_ annoying)

 

he's not _entirely_ _sure,_ all he knows is the distressingly hard floor and the soft blanket pulled up against his chin suddenly become more prominant when he realizes everything's gone quiet. almost mind-numbingly so, ringing deep in his ears. pulling his eyelids open feels maybe the hardest it has since he first woke up the previous morning, and he can only keep them open for a second before they drop closed again and he's forced to rub them rather harshly before the muscles in his face seem to wake up enough to hold them up.

 

hyunjin's out like a light to his right, phone still in hand but now the screen's dark and said hand is limp on the floor.

 

call him a masochist, but he simply wilts and embraces the strong pang of guilt at the sight. enough that he forces his stiff joints to unfold from his curled up position on the floor (it sounds like literally all of his bones pop, though, and he freezes in place to make sure he hasn't disturbed the younger) and cover the other with the blanket before daring to stand completely. the room wobbles and he feels his stomach almost immediately come alive with discomfort, uneasy and heavy like a stone except it's a _wave_ again and he has to clutch the edge of the counter and take shallow but steady breaths for what feels like several minutes until he's even close to confident enough to move again. (he ignores the heat prinkling behind his eyes because he is _not_ a child, as much as his members and maybe actually all his fans would say otherwise)

 

he makes it to the closet in the hall where he grabs two extra pillows; one for hyunjin and one for himself. the former he sets on the kitchen floor and eases hyunjin down as slowly as he can to lie on it, readjusting the blanket up to his neck and simply hovering there, crouched low and hunched over, mostly to psych himself back into standing again, but he does brush a quick, affectionate hand over hyunjin's hair just because.

 

up and down motions were never the best when you had a fever. made your blood rush all over the place, the room swim and pulse both dark and light all at once.

 

this time is no exception, and he does as he did before and holds the counter for support while he sways on his feet.

 

he just wants to sleep, please.

 

thoughts are getting harder and harder to even process, his brain turned to molassis thick like mud; maybe that's what migraines were, your brains slowly morphing into... mud. or are brains already thick like mud? or thicker, maybe, since they're made of actual flesh? another something to google. when he's not about to fall over or have a mental breakdown due to sleep deprivation. (except all he's done is sleep. yet he doesn't think he's ever felt more tired in his pitifully short life. how does that work?)

 

 

he hobbles (or maybe floats, only the halls steering him wherever he's going could say) out of the kitchen and off toward the sitting room, but he pauses outside the bathroom door.

 

it'd be safer, yeah?

 

but it'd also be more tempting.

 

...sitting room it is.

 

(why is he so fucking annoying)

 

he really hates his brains sometimes, wonders why it can't just be normal and not freak out when it needs to expell the contents of his stomach for one reason or another...

 

alas, he sits in the fucking sitting room because he's _not_ going to fucking hurl.

 

he tries the couch but even the _slight_ change in posture, as much as he tries to mimic what he had on the kitchen floor, has his stomach simmering still, anxiety simmering right along with it, so he slides back to the floor, ignores his flesh and bones groaning at the overused position to hug the pillow and his knees to his chest, and falls right back into his rythm.

 

it's what _works;_ he can be embarrassed later. (not that anyone's awake to see it anyway)

 

he feels like the only thing that exists at the moment.

 

the very molecules in the air feign tangible against his skin, his skin itself alive, stirring uncomfortably over his body, tingly, throbbing, _sick –_ he can feel _everything_ and it fucking _sucks_ and it won't let him _sleep, stupid fucking different demensions, he just wants to sleep._

 

after enough of it though, it's almost like his brain can tune into it eventually, like it's just another frequency, a radio station that turns to white noise. maybe he just tunes it _out_ eventually, but either way it's enough for him to at least _doze,_ body never halting in it's side-to-side motion, keeping the nausea dimmed down and _away._

 

it's just how nights like these go.

 

he doesn't know how long he stays like that until the world finally, _finally_ disappears.

 

-

 

somehow, similar to before, he knows it's morning the next time he wakes up.

 

peppermint.

 

it's the first thing he notices.

 

it fills his lungs like a breath of fresh air, poking and prodding his brain until he begrudgingly forces an eye open. (similar to felix and jeongin's antics the morning previous, except less obnoxious and loud and actually maybe it's not that similar) he sees the floor two inches from his face – or, not his face, just his eye, because, well, his face is _on_ the floor, smooshed by his own body weight, pillow too busy still clutched to his chest to save his face from the abuse.

 

he licks his lips and yep, he'd been drooling. lovely.

 

belatedly, it registers that the smell is tea, peppermint tea, what he had in the night, and it's not causing his stomach to eat itself inside-out, a miracle in of itself.

 

thank the fucking heavens.

 

stifling a groan, he levers his arms under himself and pushes up, up, until he's sitting against the couch. his stomach squirms, _fuck, stop it right now or else,_ and wouldn't you know it, mind over matter (he's a superhero), it _works,_ settling down once he's frozen stiff and burying his face back in the soft of his ever-present pillow. his body still cracks and pops like fucking rice crispies, heavy and sore, but his stomach doesn't make a peep and that's what _matters._

 

good. take that. fucking stomach flu gods. or satan. whichever was to blame for his hellish condition.

 

“channie-yah.”

 

he jumps at the voice and peeks up to see woojin standing above him, mug in hand and smiling far too brightly for whatever-the-fuck o'clock it was in the morning.

 

“tea?”

 

okay, maybe not far too brightly.

 

(woojin is a saint)

 

he nods into his pillow and holds out shaky hands to accept the drink and hold it close to his cheek, soaking in the warmth like a sponge. a hand suddenly cups his forehead, somewhat irritatingly so but he's too tired to show it and he's at least _trying_ not to be the big ass baby he definitely is. woojin makes a soft sound of surprise, or maybe approval, pulling back with a smile glowing even brighter than before.

 

how he can manage to be so happy in the morning is beyond chan.

 

“looks like your fever's gone down,” he chirps in satisfaction, clapping to himself twice before turning on his heel and retreating back to (presumably) the kitchen, though chan can't smell if there's any breakfast cooking. thankfully. maybe he's dreaming.

 

he takes a quick sip before even bothering to try and speak, and wisely so, as his throat might as well have been the sahara desert before it washed it down, warm and soothing and easy on his aching body.

 

“thank you!” he calls after the elder, softly as to not wake any others who might still be asleep.

 

“of course!” echos back just as softly, and yep, from the kitchen. score.

 

he wonders what he could be whipping up for breakfast that has no smell whatsoever. or maybe his nose is broken. weirder things happen when you're sick. (maybe? probably)

 

and suddenly, a wild changbin appears, hair spiked up in different directions and eyes still puffy and squinted as he hobbles straight to chan's side to sink down next to him. once, twice, thrice, he simply blinks at some spot on the oppsite wall before ever so slowly turning to face him.

 

“...morning,” he croaks, lips quirking down in reaction to his own voice.

 

chan laughs.

 

“morning.”

 

“you still look like shit,” he says, and chan stops laughing. what everyone wants to hear right after they wake up.

 

“all of you are so mean,” he huffs, squeezing his pillow tighter and allowing the scowl to linger even after his head starts throbbing with a renewed vigor. but changbin simply grunts and curls closer, letting his head fall on chan's shoulder and his eyes drift shut. chan huffs harder. “except woojin.”

 

he feels woojin's smug smile since he isn't there to see it.

 

“i'm nice,” changbin protests, barely a mumble at all, and chan pettily wishes he couldn't hear him past the cotton still stuffed tight in his ears, but alas.

 

“are not.”

 

“are too.”

 

“are not. you're the meanest,” he insists rather childishly, still riding his petulance high apparently. (he's sick, it's fine; not like he means it anyway, but _subtext)_

 

“am not. i'm the nicest. i defended your right to not throw your guts up all day yesterday.”

 

(...why does he always know how to do that)

 

“yeah, okay. you're nice.” verdict, finalised. perhaps that fact alone is enough to forgive all past, present and future slights. changbin under _stood,_ the true saint, an angel among men. he snuggles closer to said angel among men, careful not to spill his tea on the both of them. “thank you for that, by the way.”

 

another grunt. (read: _'don't mention it'_ )

 

changbin speak.

 

he chips away at his tea as the morning crawls on, still conscientious of his stomach as he listens to the sounds of woojin talking to himself in the kitchen (he's probably talking to hyunjin now that he thinks about it, but that's not as fun), changbin's soft snores tickling against his ear and keeping him from drifting off himself, but he doesn't mind. the bottom of his mug soon stares back at him and he sets it aside, leaning more fully on his dubbed cuddle buddy for the time being now that his hands are free.

 

“you feeling any better?” changbin mumbles, eyes half-lidded and pointed at the mug.

 

he hums in response, mulling over the answer.

 

“a bit. don't feel like i'm about to hurl any second. my head's still killing me though,” he adds the latter with a small grumble, and changbin leans away from him to stare, mouth quirking up as he thumbs at the space between his eyebrows.

 

“maybe if you stopped scowling like a kid who just got his candy stolen, your head would feel a bit better.”

 

chan 'scowls' harder, glowering, and yeah, his head pounds harder just as much behind his eyes and pinches tighter in his ears, but he's an adult and he will scowl whenever he damn well pleases.

 

(a+++ adulting)

 

changbin rolls his eyes and shakes his head, as if dealing with an actual child (arguably, this is true), keeping his thumb pressed to his forehead before reaching up with his other hand to smooth out the rest of it. as if that would actually make a difference. (it does)

 

ever predictable, self preservation wins and he forces his expression to smooth out. it was worth it, though... no it wasn't. now his head just hurts more. (he: annoying)

 

“want me to go get felix? so he can do his... magic hand thing on your face?” the hands disappear from his face, but one returns on the back of his neck and squeezes lightly, kneading the muscle there until he drops his head back against the couch coushin and lets his eyelids droop back shut. the world was so much better behind closed lids.

 

“that sounds mildy disconcerting,” he puffs out on a laugh, smiling mostly to himself.

 

“you know what i mean.”

 

“you mean 'massage'? that _is_ the word for it.” his smile grows just a little.

 

“...you're lucky you're sick,” and now it's changbin's turn to grumble, and sure enough, he's scowling at the wall when chan dares to take a peek. a giddy laugh jostles his shoulders, but it's short and quick and he's too tired to laugh any more than that. changbin glances at him and instead of scowling harder like chan definitely would've ( _because he's an adult and he will scowl whenever he damn well pleases_ ), a small smirk lifts his features even if he does roll his eyes for the second time that morning.

 

he's not sure whether stifling his laughter or letting it out would make his head ache more. better safe than sorry, but it's still _there_ and pressing against the inside of his ears until they throb along with it.

 

closing his eyes, yes, that's a better option. then he won't be tempted to laugh at changbin's stupid face. (adorable face, fine)

 

changbin's own chuckles taper off and his hand goes back to squeezing his neck.

 

“you didn't answer me.”

 

“mm... no, let felix sleep,” he says, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and sleep is already pressing down on him like a living thing, and clawing his way back to the surface just to open his eyes feels like swimming through tar. god, he's tired. how many hours did he even sleep? “what time is it?”

 

“like five or something.”

 

chan sighs, maybe a little disappointed but mostly just _fucking tired._ how much sleep has he had in the last thirty-six hours? fuck if he knows. not nearly enough. as obvious by his six last functioning braincells deciding it best to drag him further down the couch and press his face into changbin's arm for no reason other than to dramatically emphasize how little sleep he actually got and how happy, or rather _un_ happy, he is about said fact.

 

“the human necessity of sleeping seven-to-nine hours every night can fuck off.”

 

changbin snorts. “i take it you didn't sleep well last night?”

 

“if by 'sleep well', you mean stayed up trying to stop my brain from leaking out of my ears and my stomach from making a face reveal, then yes,” he answers quietly, stuck between wanting to go back to sleep and wanting to stay up and continue their less-than-thrilling but still pleasant conversation.

 

“stomachs don't have faces.”

 

“well aren't you smart, i had no idea,” but he says it with no heat, mostly deadpan but he hardly has enough effort for even that.

 

“go to sleep already, loser,” wafts down from somewhere over his head, and the hand disappears in favor of a general warmth enveloping his torso. his blanket maybe, or his pillow, or changbin's skinny arms, he can't be sure, but it drags him further and further away from consciousness.

 

“not a loser, loser,” he manages to retort past his foggy train of thought, or at least he thinks he does, but it's hard to tell when he's finally letting himself drift off on the soft cushions of blissful sleep for the nth time in the last twenty-four hours.

 

-

 

he resurfaces for only a few moments who knows how long later, but it's long enough for him to feel all his members dogpiled around him, blankets piled high and toy story 3 playing on low volume in the background. a small smile plays at his half-awake lips as he soon identifies the gentle breaths blowing right into his ear as their youngest's, though... he finds it more endearing than anything. (like a sleepy jeongin would let him squirm away anyway)

 

seungmin and woojin keep whispering back and forth and jisung keeps sticking his feet in their faces in retaliation, but he only has his eyes open for a few seconds to spot that. unfortunately. it might've caused him to laugh himself awake though, so maybe not _un_ fortunately.

 

everything's warm and soft and nice and he can finally forget about the aches and pains running their course through his overworked body.

 

for a little while. (he can't be bothered to ask why they're all staying in today instead of up and at 'em)

 

it's almost a lullaby to his ears, soothing to both his mind and body. he accepts it with open arms because, contrary to popular belief, he does have some semblance of self care knocking around somewhere in his brain. it's nice. it's probably nice for all of them, actually, to simply lay back and relax with each other.

 

just him and his members sharing each others company. buried under countless blankets and in some cases their own bodies. watching toy story 3.

 

he couldn't ask for better medicine.

 

(but still, fuck the fucking stomach flu)

 

-

 

(not nine hours later, it's not felix, but hyunjin, who spontaneously throws up all over chan's favorite socks. [the avengers ones, of course he had to be wearing _those_ ] he may or may not have a mini-heart attack because of it but he forgives him, being the nice thoughtful leader hyung he is – even if it almost triggers him into hurling right back, it's only fair – and stays up watching cute puppy compilations with him until they both crash in their mutual fever-induced rest)

 

(all while the other perfectly healthy members bemoan cleaning up the mess, _ha._ he'll make it up to them later. maybe there is a perk to having the stomach flu after all, but you'll never hear that from him)

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> p.s. the whole emetophobia bits are mostly from personal experiences (hence projecting), the self-soothing and staying up and tea and all of that, so sorry if it feels ooc but yk it comes with the territory lol (it's literally been probably a decade since i've throw up aayyee). but most of it can pass as the fever anyway, but fun fact!! rocking actually helps a lot when it comes to soothing nausea, at least in my experience, and i will shamelessly do it more in the future whenever i get sick as well, as long as it continues to keep me from throwing upsjdjjd.
> 
> p.p.s. i'm so sorry to everyone waiting on my chat au fic. i'm not good with writing chat aus so idk why i started it, but i really do love what i have, it's just getting from a to z that's difficult. and i never want to write out of obligation; it just stresses me out, so idk when i'll get back to it hh :( i'm so sorry to everyone who's following that, i really am. i shouldn't post fics until they're finished hh .-.
> 
>  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/cloud9_mp3)


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